Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah. Marguerite Kaye
had not failed. He would come, she told herself. He cared naught for her past, and why should he? Besides, she thought defiantly, returning to her vigil at the window, it was not Deborah, Dowager Countess of Kinsail, who would be his aider and abettor, any more than it was Elliot Marchmont who would commit the crime. Tonight it was the Peacock and Bella Donna.
She smiled into the darkness and let go the last of her doubts as the clock chimed the hour. Midnight. The witching hour. The hour of transformations and magic. Bella’s hour. Deborah’s reservations must bide their time until morning.
She was waiting for him on the doorstep. He saw the pale glimmer of her hair, stark against the dark of her clothing, as he rounded the corner. Elliot was not sure whether to be glad or sorry. No, that was a lie, he knew perfectly well how he felt, and it was the direct opposite of what he ought to. Something like a ripple shimmered through his blood as he strode quickly across the street. Reckless, foolish, crazy as it was to be taking her with him, it was what he wanted. It wasn’t just that he was curious, and it wasn’t just that he desired her either—not wholly, though that was part of it. He didn’t know what it was. The unknown, maybe? Something different? Something more? He didn’t care. What mattered now, at this moment, was that she was here and her very presence made everything sharper, more attenuated.
She was wearing some sort of greatcoat. Her smile was tremulous. No gloves. Her hands, when he took them in his, were icy. ‘It’s not too late, you can still change your mind,’ Elliot said softly, but Deborah shook her head, gave him that look, that haughty, determined one. Did she know what a challenge it was? He doubted it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘You sound as if you’re the one who’s having second thoughts.’
‘I should be, but I’m not,’ Elliot replied.
Looking up at him, Deborah felt that kick-in-the-stomach pull of attraction. He was not handsome, his face was too hard for that, but he was charismatic. She pulled her hand from his. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Have you a carriage? A horse?’
‘It’s not that far.’
Deborah sucked in her breath. ‘You mean we’re going to—here, in town? But isn’t that …’
‘Risky? Wasn’t that rather the point?’
She shivered. She had imagined a house like Kinsail Manor. The dark of night. The silence of the country. For a few seconds, reality intruded. Streetlamps. Night watchmen. Late-night revellers. And surely more locks, bolts and servants to contend with.
‘Having second thoughts, Lady Kinsail?’
His mocking tone made her stiffen. ‘No. And don’t call me that.’
‘Deborah.’
The way he said her name, giving it a dusky note it had never contained before, made her belly clench. His nearness threatened to overset her. She pushed back her greatcoat in an effort to distract herself. ‘What do you think of my clothing? Is it appropriate for a housebreaker?’
The breeches and boots revealed long, long legs. Blood rushed to Elliot’s groin. He tried not to imagine what her derrière would look like, tried not to picture those fabulous legs wrapped around him. Was she wearing corsets beneath that coat? ‘It’s very …’ Revealing? Erotic? Stimulating? Dear God! ‘Very practical,’ he said, dragging his eyes away. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d done this before.’
‘I found the clothes in a trunk in the house when I moved in. They must have belonged to the previous tenant. I kept them, but he never came back for them. He must have been quite a small man, for they are a perfect fit, don’t you think?’
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